


Everybody Loves A Parade (Except Dean Winchester)

by jujubiest



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bartender Dean Winchester, Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent, Crush at First Sight, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, Non-Binary Jack Kline, Non-Hunter Winchesters (Supernatural), One Shot, Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester, Openly Gay Castiel (Supernatural), Other characters mentioned - Freeform, Pride Parades
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28171500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujubiest/pseuds/jujubiest
Summary: Dean Winchester may be openly bisexual, but he's also a grump and a workaholic who's never been to a Pride parade.
Relationships: Castiel & Jack Kline, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 13
Kudos: 121





	Everybody Loves A Parade (Except Dean Winchester)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I was musing on tumblr about how I have trouble imagining Dean going to Pride even if he was out and proud himself, and trcunning said "Small business owner Dean has to deal with Pride on the street outside his shop." That sounded like a prompt to me! So I wrote it.
> 
> Note that in this, Dean is out to all his living friends and family. This does not include John, who died at some point before this story takes place. Dean never came out to him and doesn't think he would have been cool with it. This is unbeta'd and written in a single sitting, so any mistakes are the fault of 7am me.

Dean looks up and sighs as the bell above the door sounds. He's exhausted. He's had to herd drunk and lingering customers out the door at closing every night this week, and he had to open early this morning to beat the rush he knows will be coming in after the parade, loud and bright and thirsty. And sure, he could have stayed closed, but he's just not at a place in his life where he can afford to turn down easy money. Even if that money comes from hyperactive parade attendees in some of the most garish getups he's ever seen.

And okay, he's happy for them. He even gets it on some level. He can't imagine having one of these parades anywhere near this town when he was a kid. And when he sees all the kids watching, yeah, fine, he gets a stupid, sappy smile on his face, because he knows those kids are growing up in a helluva better world than he had to deal with when he was their age.

But parades are annoying. It doesn't matter what the reason for the parade is. They're loud, and they make a mess, and they mean working forty-eight hours straight if he wants to actually reap any of the benefits of being on the parade route. Which he does, because again...money. And speaking of money...

His prospective customer is hesitating in the doorway, looking around uncertainly from underneath the bangs of their rainbow wig. Dean gets that. His place has a certain look to it that some people seem to associate with the most ass-backwards segment of humankind. Like somehow liking exposed wooden beams and old cars is inextricably tied to being an asshole. That's another thing Dean dislikes about the Pride parade: everyone who comes to his place during the first week in June looks like they're either expecting a punch or seeking a sympathetic ear for their bullshit. The kid currently lingering in his doorway looks very much like the former.

"Hey, kid," he calls from behind the bar. "You even old enough to drink?"

The kid nods, eyes wide. Dean gives them his best customer service smile.

"Okay, well come on in then. Don't let all the cold air out." Kansas is sweltering in June, and he hates to think what the kid's two minutes of dithering is doing to his electric bill.

The kid takes a few steps inside, enough to let the door close. They're still looking around with wide eyes, though they look more curious now than scared.

"Is this the Winchester?" The kid asks in a high, soft voice.

"What the sign says." Dean pours out a glass of water and slides it across the bar. "Hydrate. You look like you ran half the parade route."

The kid approaches the bar finally, still glancing around with wide eyes, and sits down on the bar stool like they think it might bite them. They take a big gulp of the water and sigh gratefully, then reach up and remove the wig to reveal a somewhat sweaty head of blonde hair underneath.

"Thanks," the kid says. "Wow I really needed that."

"First time at Pride?" Dean asks, figuring it can't hurt to make small talk while he sets things up behind the bar. There are no other customers, and the kid looks lost in a way that tugs on Dean's heart strings in spite of himself.

"Yeah," the kid laughs. "I was marching with my dad, but we got separated. Figured I'd duck in somewhere and get something to drink before I go looking for him."

"Marching with your dad, huh? That's nice." Dean can't even picture it. His dad wouldn't have been caught dead at a Pride parade, and he's pretty sure he'd have killed Dean for wanting to go to one. Which may be another reason they make Dean so uncomfortable. He's out to everyone that matters--his mom, his friends, the people who work for him. But he's never quite gotten over the way his dad used to look at him sometimes: like he knew, and hated it. The idea of not just being out, but loud about it, has never sat easily with Dean. This kid is braver than he'll ever be.

"Yeah," the kid is saying. "We've done it every year since I could walk. And I guess before that he probably carried me on his shoulders. I didn't really get why it was so important to him, until..." here the kid pauses. Their eyes drift to their surroundings again, as though realizing they're oversharing with a complete stranger in a honky-tonk bar that screams "conservative."

"Hey, don't let the John Wayne of it all fool you, kid," Dean says with a grin that he hopes comes across as appeasing. "We get all sorts of folks in here, and the only ones I've ever kicked out were the ones being assholes."

The kid smiles, and Dean aches at the relief in it. Clearly having a supportive father hasn't always been protection enough. God, Dean hates to think of that. This kid may be twenty-one (Dean assumes, though he hasn't seen an ID yet), but they look like a skinny teenager. Dean remembers being that teenager, once upon a time. It was rough, even with him projecting macho nonsense as hard and as far outward as he could.

"You seem nice," the kid says, apropos of nothing and as though just making up their mind. Dean blinks, a little taken aback by that.

"Well thanks, kid," he laughs. "I hope so, I'd be a pretty shitty bartender if I couldn't be nice to strangers."

"I'm Jack," the kid says. "He/him pronouns, mostly."

"Got it, Jack. Nice to meet you. I'm Dean Winchester. Uh, also he/him pronouns, I guess." It feels weird to say that, but not so weird that it stops him from doing it.

Jack's eyes widen.

"You're Dean Winchester? Winchester like the name of the bar?"

"Uh, yeah?" Dean says, confused.

"Ohmigosh, I have so many questions. Okay so I was really looking for somewhere to get some water, but I saw the sign outside and just had to pop in here specifically because this place has such a cool history. I can't believe I'm talking to the owner!"

Dean's laughs again.

"Oh, that. Yeah. There's a box somewhere with a bunch of old photos and papers from before I bought the place. That's more my little brother's bag than mine. I just serve beer and nachos to the locals."

"Okay, this may sound really weird, but any chance I could--"

The bell above the door rings again. Dean looks up automatically and sucks in a breath.

"Jack?" The man standing in the door is obviously Jack's father, obviously in need of water, and inexplicably stunning. He's tall, maybe an inch or two shorter than Dean, and lean like he spends his time running marathons or swimming. He's also dark-haired, very tan--as though he spends a lot of time outdoors--and his eyes are so blue Dean can pick out the color from across the room, even in the bar's relatively low lighting.

"Hey Dad," Jack says cheerily. "I was just about to come look for you! Mr. Winchester had me hydrate first."

Jack's unfairly gorgeous father crosses the room and sticks a hand out toward Dean. Dean shakes it, trying not to stare and failing completely.

"Well thank you, Mr. Winchester," Jack's father says, and holy fuck. His voice is deep, so deep Dean can feel the thrum of it vibrating through him where their hands are clasped together. He draws his hand back, a little dazed.

"Uh...Dean, please. Mr. Winchester was my father."

"Dean," he acknowledges, that voice wrapping around the name and turning it into something lovelier than should be allowed. He smiles, and Dean is distracted from his voice by the brilliance of that smile, the way it transforms his already handsome face. "Nice to meet you. I'm Castiel. Thank you for saving my son from the inevitable heat stroke that would have otherwise befallen him."

Jesus. Dean's stuck between wondering who talks like that and frantically trying to come up with some way to keep this man here and talking to him. He wants this man to sit at his bar and tell his life story. He'd settle for hearing him read from the phone book.

He must be losing his mind, thinking thoughts like these about a man he just met, and with his kid in the room no less. He realizes he's staring, and he can't think of anything to say. Castiel just stares back, smiling placidly, as though there's nothing strange about the way Dean is ogling him.

"Uh, it was no trouble, Cas," he manages, flushing at the accidental nickname. If Sam were here, he would be smirking like the cat that ate the canary. It was a habit with Dean, giving nicknames to people he liked too much. But Castiel just smiled a little wider.

"Cas? I like that." He pulls himself gracefully onto a bar stool and props his arms on the bar, still staring at Dean all the while.

"So, Dean. What were you and my son chatting about?"

Jack jumps in, looking between his father and Dean with a bemused grin on his face.

"Mr. Winchester--sorry, Dean--owns the bar. This is the one I was telling you about, Dad. It's been here since prohibition! There are tons of cool stories about rum runners, and--"

Jack chatters away excitedly as Dean and Cas stare at each other across the bar. Dean feels his heart beat a little faster for each minute Cas doesn't look away. By the time Jack runs out of steam, Dean's pretty sure he's had at least one heart attack.

He doesn't do this. He doesn't get like this, not about anyone, ever. It's a surefire way to get your heart broken, and that's even without having to navigate all the crap ignorant people throw around. Dean learned a long time ago that whether it was a guy or a girl, he should play his cards close to the chest. It's just safer that way.

But when he looks at Cas he wants to throw the cards to the wind, crack open his chest, and hand over his still-beating heart. Morbid though that image may be, something about the way Cas smiles at him over the top of his entertwined fingers makes him feel like his heart would be safe there, in those hands.

When Jack is done, Dean opens his mouth to say...something. But what comes out is:

"I was telling Jack, I think I have a box of old papers and photos somewhere around here. Uh..." He pauses. Rubs the back of his neck. "I could dig that out for you, if you want? I have to work tonight, this place'll be like the Terrapin Station Tour at Raceway Park once the parade lets out. But I could get it together tomorrow and, uh, give you a call? We could get some food and go through it all together?"

He just asked this guy for his number and he's pretty sure he just asked him to dinner, too. But Cas just pulls a pen out of a pocket and grabs a napkin from the stack near Dean's elbow, grinning away at Dean like he's delighted by him. He scribbles something down, smiling all the while, and presses it into Dean's hand.

"Sounds good," he says as he does, his fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. "That's my number. It's a landline, so if I don't answer, just leave a message. I will call you back."

Dean feels his face flushing but he takes the paper with Cas's number and tucks it carefully into a pocket of his jeans.

"Definitely," he breathes.

Jack thanks him for the water, and Dean waves goodbye to the two of them, still a little dazed. He continues setting up for the post-parade rush with a grin on his face that just won't go away. And when the parade-goers start to trickle in, he greets them all with more genuine enthusiasm than he would have thought possible at the start of the day.

Maybe he doesn't hate parades so much after all.


End file.
